The Bully (Kingmakers)

by Sophie Lark

  “Back off,” I snarl at Vanya. “If the high table has a problem with Dominik Petrov, then they’ll convene a council.”

  “They are,” Vanya smirks. “My father is heading it.”

  “Then let them decide if there’s been any malfeasance. It’s not up to you to make accusations.”

  “Why are you defending him?” Bodashka says, glaring at Kade. “He and his brother are both the same. Arrogant. Grasping. Above their station.”

  “You’re just mad because Adrik beat your brother in the Quartum Bellum three years in a row,” Ares says, staring down Bodashka.

  The petty rivalries amongst the Bratva are almost as vicious as those against their foreign foes. There’s antipathy between St. Petersburg and Moscow, between the Paris Bratva and London, and intense jealousy against our brethren in the States.

  I’m not familiar with the drama Ares is referencing, but I’m sure he’s right.

  It doesn’t matter. I’ve gotten enough shit from the children of Bratva over my own family’s standing. I’m not gonna watch Vanya heap the same abuse on Kade’s shoulders.

  “Keep your ignorant opinions to yourself,” I say to Vanya, who has climbed to his feet once more, his handsome features distorted with anger. “It’s none of your concern how the Petrovs run their business.”

  “It’s you that should watch yourself, Dmitry,” Vanya sneers. “You ought to learn where to make allies. The Antonovs are rising in Moscow. If you pay your respects, I might find a place for you when Danyl makes me lieutenant.”

  I snort. “I’ll find a place for you shining my boots when I earn that spot.”

  Vanya opens his mouth to retort, only to be interrupted by Snow clapping his hands sharply, calling the class to order.

  “My apologies,” he says. “I was delayed by the Chancellor. I hope you all took the opportunity to warm up, because we’re going directly into drills. Pair up.”

  I nod to Kade Petrov. “Want to join me?”

  “Sure,” he says, surprised but gratified. I haven’t voluntarily sparred with him before—it’s usually Snow who rotates the more experienced fighters through the younger students.

  Snow orders us to grab pads. I slip the targets on my hands so Kade can go first for the drill.

  I take him through a jab, hook, cross combo. Kade punches the pads viciously, exorcizing his residual animosity against Vanya.

  “Never mind him,” I say to Kade. “He’s a fucking asshole, everyone knows it.”

  Kade throws me half a grin. “I thought that’s what everybody says about you. How come you stood up for me?”

  “I may hate everybody, but I hate Vanya the most,” I shrug.

  Kade laughs. He hits the pads in combination again, hard enough that my palms sting. His punches are getting cleaner.

  “You drop that right shoulder too much,” I tell him.

  Kade tries again, this time keeping his shoulder in better alignment. His punch pops the center of the pad with a satisfying thwack.

  “You’re a good teacher,” Kade says. “Like Snow.”

  “I’m not like him,” I say. “I’d never have the patience to teach a bunch of degenerates.”

  Particularly Bodashka and Vanya, who are lazily going through the drill with sullen glares in our direction.

  Glancing at Kade again, at his clear, youthful face, I think how passionate he was in defending his father and brother.

  “I liked your father,” I tell him. “He was faithful to your mother.”

  “He’s always been faithful to her,” Kade says proudly. “And he’s loyal to Ivan. Vanya doesn’t know what the fuck he’s talking about.”

  “He never does.” I nod. “If you could capture half the shit that comes out of his mouth, you could fertilize Siberia.”

  Kade laughs. “He wouldn’t dare talk that way if Adrik was here.”

  “No, he wouldn’t,” I agree. “You remember he didn’t say fuck-all at the Bolshoi Theater.”

  Kade snickers. “He and his father were much too busy with their lips pressed firmly against Abram Balakin’s ass.”

  Now I’m the one laughing. “I brought you one of those cigars you like so much . . . god they suck.”

  We’re not talking loudly enough for Vanya to hear, but he sees us laughing. His scowl darkens until he looks like a petulant toddler. A petulant toddler that drew his own eyebrows on with a pen.

  A question strikes me that Kade could probably answer.

  “Why isn’t Ivan Petrov’s son at Kingmakers?”

  Kade shrugs awkwardly. I regret asking—I hadn’t meant to pry into family business.

  “He didn’t want to come,” Kade says. “He’s very popular in America. Very . . . you know . . . occupied with his life there.”

  “Of course,” I say, nodding.

  A common problem when Bratva allow their children to grow up in the wealth and glamor of the states. They get into the playboy lifestyle, fucking and partying, and they don’t want to learn the business.

  Kade and I swap positions, Kade donning the pads so I can take my turn with the drill. I hit the targets harder and faster each round, until Kade is wincing and has to remove the pads to shake out his hands.

  “Fuck, you’ve got a hammer for an arm,” he says.

  I usually feel annoyed by compliments, because my skill is obvious. Today, however, I simply say, “Thanks.”

  “My father says your dad is a brilliant bookkeeper,” Kade says.

  “He likes to organize,” I say.

  On the page. Not in our fucking house, unfortunately.

  I wait, expecting Kade to follow that up with some comment on my father’s appearance. It never fails. People can’t help themselves.

  But Kade says nothing at all. He just holds up the pads again, waiting for me to take my next turn.

  That blessed silence is the best part of our conversation.

  After class, as the students file out, Snow calls, “Dean. Wait a moment.”

  I wait, sweat drying on my skin. It was an intense session.

  Snow stands silent with arms folded, until everyone else is gone. Then he says, “You worked hard today.”

  I smother the impulse to tell him that I work hard every day.

  “Thank you,” I say again.

  Look at me, becoming humble and well-mannered. At least for a day.

  “You’ve taken Kade Petrov under your wing.”

  “I don’t know about that.” I shrug. “I don’t mind sparring with him. He’s not the best in the class, but he’s improving.”

  “So are you,” Snow says. “I want you to come here Tuesdays and Thursdays when class is done. I’ll work with you one on one.”

  The idea of boxing five days a week is daunting—my back is already knotted up harder than an oak tree from the current sessions. But I understand how valuable a gift Snow is offering me. I don’t think he’s offering it to anyone else.

  “Thank you,” I say. “I’d like that.”

  “Good.” Snow claps me on the shoulder. His hand is heavy and warm. “Hurry on then, Dean. I don’t want Professor Graves to lock you out again.”

  Was that Snow’s version of a joke?

  He’s not smiling. But I’ve yet to see him smile—he may not be capable of it.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll run,” I say.

  “See you tomorrow.” Snow nods.

  I jog across campus with long strides, my body sore but strangely light.

  8

  Cat

  Dean leaves me alone for an entire week.

  Those days are oddly blank.

  I had grown used to running around campus, meeting him between classes and over meals.

  I had gotten used to his tall frame always beside me, and that tense, electric energy he radiates.

  Dean does everything efficiently. I’ve memorized the way he lines up his fork and knife beside his plate, how he butters his bread and how he sets his water glass down in precisely the same place after taking a drink
.

  I find myself setting out my own dishes in the same way, even though I’m eating lunch with Rakel, Anna, and Chay today, and not Dean.

  “Nice to have you back,” Chay says to me, spreading out her own generous lunch, which includes three chocolate chip cookies.

  “Are those keto?” Anna teases her.

  “No,” Chay replies with great dignity. “I stopped doing keto over the summer when I went to Tasmania. I wanted to try the local food. And anyway, Ozzy says he likes me with a little more ass.”

  “I bet he does,” Anna laughs. “You can have my cookie too—for Ozzy.”

  “Are you guys still dating?” I ask Chay, pleased to hear an update.

  “Yes,” she says happily. “I met his dad and cousins. We went bow hunting and cliff diving. Took a three-day trip to the barrier reef and swam with whale sharks. His dad is just like Ozzy, I felt like I knew him already. I think it was a good distraction for him. For all of us. Ozzy showed me his mom’s rose garden. I rode her favorite horse . . . He’s still sad, really sad. But he’s also himself, funny and playful and . . .”

  Chay breaks off, pink-cheeked, thinking she’s said too much.

  She’s clearly head-over-heels for Ozzy, despite the fact that they’re now long distance.

  “Are you going to Tasmania again when school lets out?” I ask.

  Chay shakes her head. “No. Ozzy’s coming to Berlin. I mean, if he still wants to in the spring.”

  “I think he’d swim there if he had to,” Anna laughs.

  “You can’t swim to Berlin. It’s land-locked,” Rakel says.

  “Don’t ruin my joke with geography.” Anna pretends to scowl at Rakel, stealing one of her grapes.

  “Make more accurate jokes.” Rakel sniffs, snitching Anna’s apple in return.

  Rakel and Anna have formed their own brand of friendship, where they’re free to be as grouchy with each other as they please.

  “Where’s Leo?” I ask Anna.

  “Finishing up a history paper with Ares.”

  “I wanted to congratulate him. I saw he’s Captain again for the Quartum Bellum.”

  The vote was posted this morning. It was no surprise that the Juniors chose Leo once again, after he lead them to victory the two years before.

  “I think he regrets ever wanting to be Captain in the first place,” Anna laughs. “The challenges are so goddamn grueling and the pressure’s sky-high. Everybody expects us to win.”

  “You will win!” I say, with full confidence.

  “You’re not supposed to cheer them on. You’re supposed to help our team win,” Rakel reminds me.

  “No, I’m on Miles’ side about this,” I say, taking a bite of my sandwich. “The sooner we’re eliminated, the sooner I can stop worrying about something horrible happening to me in that cursed competition.”

  As I set my sandwich down once more, Dean carries his tray of food past my table, flanked by Jasper Webb and Bram Van Der Berg. Our eyes meet as he passes, but he doesn’t speak to me.

  I watch him cross the dining hall and take his seat on the opposite side. He’s facing me, and his eyes hold mine as he spears a carrot on the tines of his fork, placing it in his mouth.

  Chay clears her throat.

  “So . . .” she says. “What’s going on with our friendly neighborhood sociopath over there? You’re eating with us, and yet I can’t help but notice that Dean seems more interested in you than his carrots.”

  “It’s not like that,” I say, dropping my eyes to my plate. “He doesn’t . . . like me, or anything like that.”

  Even as I’m saying the words, I’m remembering the way Dean kissed me up against his bedroom wall. I’ve never imagined that a kiss could be so ravenous.

  Anna is watching me, not with anger or jealousy, but with something very like understanding.

  “Dean has his good points,” Anna says. “I understand that better than anyone. Just be careful, Cat. He can be cruel—and dangerous.”

  Chay leans across the table to rest her hand on my arm, her blue eyes seeking mine out.

  “He tried to kill Leo,” she tells me. “In our Freshman year.”

  “Is that true?” I ask Anna.

  She nods, her expression somber. “Yes, it is. Dean tried to drown Leo. And it almost worked.”

  I look across the dining hall again, at Dean’s stern and unsmiling face. He’s still watching me. Does he know we’re talking about him? Does he care?

  I can’t imagine Dean ever apologizing. Ever showing remorse.

  I pick up my tray, ready to return it to the kitchen staff.

  As I walk toward the kitchen window, I hear steady footsteps intercepting me. I know without turning that Dean is standing behind me. The tiny hairs rise on the back of my neck, like the charge in the air before a lightning storm.

  “Did you enjoy your lunch?” he says quietly.

  I return my tray and turn to face him.

  We haven’t stood this close since our kiss.

  He hasn’t spoken to me since then.

  The memory is like a hologram shimmering in the air between us. I can see the two of us locked in an embrace, and I’m sure he can too.

  “I have a proposition for you,” Dean says.

  “What kind of proposition?” I reply warily.

  “Meet me in the Bell Tower tonight. Nine o’clock.”

  I chew the corner of my lip, considering.

  The last time I was alone with Dean, things took an unexpected turn . . .

  There’s been a constant throbbing curiosity in the back of my brain ever since. A strange, dissatisfied yearning, like a melody cut off mid-note.

  Dean and I have unfinished business.

  “Alright,” I say, at last.

  “Nine o’clock,” he repeats, his low voice vibrating in my bones. “Don’t be late.”

  All afternoon in class, I’m thinking about Dean and what sort of “proposition” he might offer me.

  He already has all the leverage he needs to coerce me into doing what he wants.

  Which can only mean . . . he’s about to ask for something more.

  Dean terrifies me. I just learned that he’s a would-be murderer himself, that he tried to drown his own cousin out of jealousy over Anna and whatever other grudges he holds against Leo.

  Still . . . I can’t deny that there’s something magnetic about Dean.

  I never met someone so intense, so consuming. He’s like a fire running wild through dry brush, swallowing up everything in his path.

  He wants what he wants, he does what he pleases. He doesn’t care if he’s liked or hated.

  I have to admire that to a degree. Because I absolutely care what people think of me. I’m easily embarrassed, easily intimidated.

  If Dean were to leave me alone . . . I’d still think about him all the time. The last week has shown me that. When I lie in bed at night, unable to sleep, I slip my hand beneath my covers and touch myself, trying to recall the exact texture of his rough, strong fingers against my skin. My small, soft hand is nowhere near as satisfying.

  After class, I find myself showering and shaving every inch of my skin, making myself clean from top to bottom. Dean is obsessed with cleanliness. The thought of him finding me dirty or unkempt is intolerable, though the idea of him touching me again is hardly any better. I’m a bundle of raw nerves.

  I put on fresh clothes: knee socks, Mary Janes, a green plaid skirt, and an oversized knitted jumper. I pile my curls up on my head, pinning them in place, or at least attempting to—little corkscrews always escape, dangling down around my face and the nape of my neck.

  I look at my face in the mirror, wondering if I should put on makeup or not. Dean made me wash it off that one time, but I think he was just being an ass.

  I take a liquid liner and draw a wing on either eye, tilted up at the outer edges. It makes my eyes look bigger than ever, very like a cat. I blink slowly, pleased with the effect.

  Why am I dressing up for Dean?


  I don’t know.

  I only know that my heart is racing long before I jog across the open expanse of grass between the Undercroft and the ruined Bell Tower on the northwest corner of campus.

  The Bell Tower looks as if it was hit with a lightning blast. It may well have been—the stones are charred and blackened by fire, with large gaps in the wall where the inferno raged through. Only half the roof remains in place, the other half gaping open to the stars like a missing eye. The edge of the bell peeks through, the metal tarnished from sun and rain.

  No one comes in here because it’s a death trap. It looks like it might crumble at any moment.

  I stole stones from this tower.

  I carried them up on the wall. I stuffed them into a canvas sack and hung that sack as a counterweight. Then I looped a noose around Rocco’s wrist, kicked the pin free, and sent both stones and Rocco plunging five hundred feet down to the jagged rocks below.

  So in a sense, the Bell Tower was my instrument of murder.

  I don’t know if Dean is aware of that fact.

  Guilt eats at me as I climb those loose and blasted steps once more.

  My steps echo in the dark tower. I didn’t bring a candle, and I can barely see five feet in front of me.

  I fail to notice a gap in the steps. My foot plunges through the empty hole into the blackness below. I stumble, hitting my knee on the next step above and banging my elbows for good measure.

  “Fuck,” I mutter.

  So much for staying clean. I try to dust off my soot-smeared knees, wiping my palms on the side of my skirt.

  The wind blows through the holes in the tower, making a creepy moaning sound. I hear the echoing bounces of rubble dislodged by my feet, tumbling down the stairs behind me.

  Shivering, I scale the last few steps.

  Dean is waiting for me at the top of the tower. He leans up against the vast bronze bell, arms folded across his chest. The bell no longer hangs suspended with a rope dangling from its clapper. It crashed down at some point, now tilted at an angle on its side, half its mass supported by the creaking wooden floor, and half protruding over open space.